


Death Is a Wall (But It Can't Be the End)

by DownToTheSea



Series: His Nice and Accurate Materials [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: (Crowley and Aziraphale), An Awful Lot of Hand Holding, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Relationship, Crossover, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domesticity, Established Relationship, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Post-Canon, Some Humor, Telepathy, Tenderness, pure self-indulgence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-23
Updated: 2020-04-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:41:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23798638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DownToTheSea/pseuds/DownToTheSea
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley come across an angel from another world, in desperate need of their help.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Balthamos/Baruch
Series: His Nice and Accurate Materials [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2096061
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35





	Death Is a Wall (But It Can't Be the End)

**Author's Note:**

> The Amber Spyglass shattered my heart into a million pieces (I JUST LOVE BALTHAMOS AND BARUCH A LOT) and I just had to fix things with my other favorite angel husbands.

On a fierce east wind, the motes of what had once been an angel were swept down in eddying swirls, away from a range of snow-capped mountains and across the valleys below. Floating across a vast expanse of green, they drifted through a window in the sky. It wasn’t the first window they had encountered. Days had passed since they had been set adrift, and they were far from the world they had originated in.

There was a storm thundering in this new world. Tossed by its ferocious gusts, they eventually floated across the sea to England, in a world not so very different from Will Parry’s.

Of course, they took no notice of any of this. Whatever consciousness there had once been in the angel was no longer present, and even if it had been he likely wouldn’t have cared whether he landed in a sprawling array of botanical gardens in southwest London or on the moon. Still, though, a tiny spark of life clung on. It should have faded away long ago, as soon as the angel breathed his last word. But it hadn’t, for the simplest reason of all: love. The angel had died longing, desperate for just one more moment with his beloved; he couldn’t truly let go until he found him.

As it happened, there was another angel nearby. Aziraphale, Principality, Angel of the Eastern Gate, was strolling arm-in-arm with his demonic husband through the botanical gardens, having just had a  _ lovely _ lunch out at the Ritz before coming here to the next phase of their date. Anthony J. Crowley, Tempter of Original Sin, Owner From New of a 1926 Bentley of Which He Was Inordinately Proud, had become distracted by a nearby orchid that wasn’t putting in its best effort, and was making threatening faces at it when he thought Aziraphale couldn’t see. (Aziraphale could see. He had a great many eyes to do so with, though only two of them were visible at the moment.)

“Really, my dear,” Aziraphale said.

“Ugh, fine.” Crowley threw his arms up and let Aziraphale draw him away, somehow managing to slither teeteringly along despite his firm hold on his arm. “If I’d known this place’d be so low quality, I’d have suggested somewhere else.”

“I think it’s lovely! And the company couldn’t be better, of course.” Aziraphale beamed at him.

Crowley turned so red he could have blended right in with the scarlet blossoms they were perusing, and stayed that way all throughout the orchid collection and quite a few more exhibits besides. Eventually they reached the alpine house, and Aziraphale exclaimed over the lovely yet hardy plants on display. Unfortunately the temperature had to be cool to accommodate them, and Crowley’s face drained of color, his teeth chattering.

“Oh dear, do you want to step outside?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley shook his head. “No, I p-promissssed you all the gardens and you’re bloody well gonna see all the gardens.”

With an infinitely fond expression that would have melted Crowley on the spot if he had seen it, Aziraphale immediately shrugged out of his coat and wrapped it around Crowley’s shoulders. Shivering, Crowley folded his arms, clutching the lapels of the coat closed across his chest and trying to snuggle into the leftover angel warmth. A snap of Aziraphale’s fingers later, and a soft tartan scarf was wrapped around his neck.

_ “Tartan?”  _ he complained, looking down. (But he nestled his chin gratefully into it anyway.)

Aziraphale looked offended. “It’s  _ stylish.” _

Crowley snorted as Aziraphale patted the scarf and leaned over to kiss his cheek. “I have no idea where you get that idea, angel. Tartan hasn’t been stylish for – well, years. Decades. Never stylish to begin with, if you ask me.”

“Well, I didn’t,” Aziraphale said a bit petulantly. Crowley only grinned.

He snuck a glance around, making sure they weren’t being observed, and leaned over to give Aziraphale an answering peck on the cheek. They didn’t have to worry about Heaven or Hell watching them anymore, but he still wasn’t entirely used to public displays of affection. Ten years of marriage was only a drop in the ocean compared to six thousand years of longing, after all. His ears burned, but pleasantly.

“Now,” Aziraphale said, and took Crowley’s hand. “I think we’d better – ”

He froze, stiffening. His fingers suddenly gripped tight on Crowley’s.

“What is it?” Crowley forgot how cold he was in light of the panic on Aziraphale’s face.

His cheeks had gone ashen grey, and there was so much fear in his eyes… Crowley hadn’t seen it since the almost-geddon.

He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand. “Angel?”

Aziraphale shook himself, looking over at Crowley with horror. “There’s an angel,” he whispered. His hand trembled in Crowley’s. “Here – ”

“Where?”

Aziraphale indicated a far corner of the room. “There. Hiding near those rocks, I think.”

“Right, come on.” Crowley strode down the aisle, Aziraphale hurrying after him, until they were standing in front of the rocks.

“Dearest, I  _ really  _ don’t think this is wise – ” Aziraphale was saying behind him, trying to get in front and block him from the divine line of fire, while Crowley tried right back to do the same. This resulted in an ineffectual shuffle of flailing limbs and bumping into each other while Crowley attempted to glare menacingly at the air where he thought the angel would be. (He was a little off, and ended up intimidating a daffodil instead.)

“Oi!” Crowley called. “Angel – I mean, not  _ my  _ angel,” here he was interrupted by Aziraphale demurely murmuring “Oh,  _ Crowley… _ ”

“Whichever angel is lurking over there. First off you’re a rubbish angel because  _ demons  _ are supposed to do the lurking, not you lot. Secondly, if you try to hurt us I’m going to burn you in so many circles of Hell you won’t even be able to count to nine by the time I’m done – ”

Aziraphale finally succeeded in gently shoving Crowley back and stepping in front of him. He gave a brilliant but cold smile.

“Do please listen to my husband. I’m afraid you don’t want to –  _ oh…”  _ His knees buckled and he would have tumbled to the floor if Crowley hadn’t sunk down to catch him.

“Angel?” Crowley’s voice broke in his panic. He looked up, snarling, clutching Aziraphale and ready to fight whatever was hurting him even if he was almost certain to lose –

Aziraphale was furiously shaking his head. Tears gathered in his eyes, spilling down his cheeks, and he seized Crowley’s hand and pressed it over his heart as though to reassure himself of his solidity.

“Don’t – don’t – it’s  _ love _ , but oh, it hurts _ ,  _ it  _ hurts  _ – ”

_ Love?  _ As far as Crowley knew Aziraphale was the only angel in the whole of Heaven who truly understood what that word meant. All he could do was gape helplessly, confused, Aziraphale’s fingers like a vise on his.

“Don’t hurt him,” he managed. “It’s not his fault. I just… need a moment. Don’t leave, please, Crowley –  _ Crowley  _ – ” More tears leaked from his eyes, and he let out a helpless sob.

Crowley hissed angrily in the direction of the pool, but he remained kneeling by Aziraphale, holding him. “Not going anywhere, angel,” he promised.

Aziraphale was weeping in his arms, curling up and turning into him, one hand coming up to bury itself in Crowley’s hair. Swallowing down his questions and the still-pressing need to  _ utterly destroy  _ whatever was doing this, Crowley held Aziraphale’s hand and stroked his hair with the other, trying to make soothing noises that came out rather hissy instead. All the while he kept an eye on the empty patch of air where he thought the angel was. Why the heaven hadn’t he come out yet? Probably enjoyed watching Aziraphale suffer, he thought darkly.

With one last tight squeeze Aziraphale finally let go and sat up, although he remained in his current position half in Crowley’s lap.

“Oh, dear, what a dreadful mess I must look,” were the first words out of his mouth, which was how Crowley knew he was feeling himself again. Wordlessly, he fished a tartan pocket handkerchief out of the coat he was still wearing and handed it to Aziraphale, who blew his nose loudly.

“Thank you, dear,” he said, sniffling.

By this point Crowley was practically vibrating out of his skin with nerves. “Mind telling me what’s going on?”

Aziraphale’s eyes welled up again. “That poor creature. He’s lost his love, you see.”

“But – but he’s an angel!”

Aziraphale threw a look at him.

“Alright, but angel, you know as well as I do that you  _ ethereal beings _ don’t go around falling in love at the drop of a hat.”

“Not the drop of a hat,” Aziraphale said softly. “You and I know better than that. Oh, such a long, long time they must have been together… I’ve never felt pain like that. For a moment it – it was so overwhelming, and I forgot where I was, and I thought – I thought  _ you... _ ” He trailed off, swallowing and wrapping both hands around Crowley’s, bending over and pressing his lips and then his forehead to it.

Crowley rubbed circles on his back and ran one of his fingers along the interior of Aziraphale’s palm, wishing he could do more. He  _ had  _ felt pain like that before. And he hadn’t felt it secondhand. He’d felt it when he’d run into an empty, burning bookshop. Begrudgingly, some sympathy for this being edged in.

“Why hasn’t he shown himself yet?” he asked as Aziraphale slowly and reluctantly dislodged himself from Crowley’s arms.

Aziraphale brushed down his waistcoat, straightening it. “I’m not sure he’s quite able to,” he said thoughtfully, brushing the last tears off his cheeks. “I think he’s been hurt. Badly.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes. “Don’t tell me you’re about to do what I think you’re going to do.”

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Very well then; I shan’t tell you.”

“Angel…” Crowley groaned. But he couldn’t bring himself to argue: he would never win, and anyway he wouldn’t really have wanted Aziraphale to give in on his ridiculous devotion to helping people, even people who didn’t deserve it in the slightest. Maybe especially people who didn’t deserve it in the slightest. All he could do was keep a firm hold on his hand and try to look as scary and liable to spout hellfire at a moment’s notice as possible.

Aziraphale took a deep breath and snapped his fingers.

In front of them, golden sparks began to light.

Under a surge of divine power the likes of which he had seen only a few times in his long life, the disparate parts of the angel began to knit themselves back together again. The miniscule spark of life became a roaring blaze. Then full consciousness, and at last Balthamos unfurled his narrow wings and stood in the London botanical gardens. He was lost, confused, still in dreadful pain both physical and otherwise, yet the first thought that crossed his mind was  _ what a dreadful smell. _

Then he looked at the angelic figures before him, and shrank back into himself.

One of them, with fiery red hair and dressed all in black except for an incongruous beige overcoat, was like himself and yet not; one of the Fallen, but fallen further and deeper than Balthamos ever had. His wings, invisible to the humans around them, were a beautiful glossy black, charred at the edges. He was powerful, though, that was clear. His eyes were hidden behind dark-tinted glasses, and his hand was curled protectively around the other’s.

That being frightened Balthamos more than the first, so much more that he was rendered still as a statue save for a terrified tremor pulsing through him. He  _ wasn’t  _ Fallen, or cast out. He was a Principality, and if Balthamos looked at him just so, he glowed with a blinding, burning light, and a thousand eyes seemed to open out of the surrounding space, cut out of reality and boring into him.

…Although if he looked at the being in another way, he appeared more like a kindly and very dull middle-aged librarian. But Balthamos wasn’t fooled: here was a true angel who would strike him dead at any moment, and then this strange half-life and this dream of a different world would end –

“Oh, my poor dear fellow,” said the Principality gently. “I’m so very, very sorry. You must be dreadfully disoriented. Would you like to come back to my bookshop for a cup of tea?”

The unknown angel’s mouth worked silently for a moment. At least, Crowley was pretty sure it was a mouth. Even after he had finished reforming, it was hard to get a good idea of exactly what he actually looked like.

This was a very different sort of angel than the ones Crowley was used to; it was difficult to even see him, let alone describe him. So difficult, in fact, that if Crowley  _ had  _ tried to describe him, his description would likely have been riddled with inconsistencies and vague metaphors. So, wisely, Crowley filed him away as a “transparent-ish vaguely-glowy light ?? being” and that was that.

“I…” The angel’s voice came out thick and rasping. “I – what’s tea?”

Aziraphale’s eyebrows furrowed slightly. “Must be new down here,” he muttered to himself, then turned back to the angel. “Do please come with us, you seem to have been through quite an ordeal and perhaps we can help a little.”

He took a step forward and the angel stumbled back, obviously terrified.

“We won’t hurt you,” said Aziraphale kindly. “I give you my word.” He paused, and something flickered in the shadows on his face before it returned to its sunny, reassuring smile. “Unless you attempt to harm Crowley or myself, of course.”

The angel’s eyes darted between the two of them, no doubt realizing just how much they had him outclassed by. Then without warning he dimmed even more and swayed, listing towards a bed of  _ ipheion uniflorum _ . Aziraphale rushed forward before he could collapse entirely, collecting him as easily as if he were a stray book falling off its shelf.

He tutted. “Quite overwhelmed, I’m afraid. Crowley, would you be a dear and – ”

“On it.” Crowley snapped his fingers, and all the people between them and the Bentley spontaneously decided to take out their phones and check the headlines for a few minutes. It was easy to get the angel to the car, where Aziraphale gently laid him in the backseat, and then they were speeding back to the bookshop.

“I dunno if this is a good idea,” Crowley said on the way, while Chopin’s  _ Love of My Life  _ played softly in the background. “We still have no idea where this angel comes from. For all we know he could be a spy working for Gabriel or something.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “No, no, there was no way he could fake those emotions.”

Crowley made grumbling noises.

“He needs our help,” Aziraphale insisted, and ruthlessly turned the full force of his pleading eyes on his husband. Crowley was helpless beneath them, and within minutes they were pulling into the miraculously-open parking space in front of the bookshop. Though they had been retired to the South Downs for several years, Aziraphale hadn’t been able to part from the shop, and they still spent some time in town.

They got the angel inside and Aziraphale bustled around making tea, although in the middle of this process he dithered and wondered out loud if hot cocoa wasn’t really the thing for a broken heart, wasn’t it dear? And Crowley, who thought that alcohol was better than either option, made a non-committal sort of noise, which was all that Aziraphale had expected out of him, and he decided to make both.

There were two steaming mugs next to the angel when he finally woke up, and Aziraphale and Crowley were sitting nearby. Crowley had an arm slung around Aziraphale’s shoulders partly because he didn’t trust their new acquaintance and was feeling a bit jumpy, and partly because Aziraphale made little distressed noises whenever he moved too far away. Clearly, he was still shaken up by that wave of emotion he had felt from the angel.

As soon as he saw them, the strange angel twitched back again instinctively.

“If you’re going to kill me,” he said, his voice shaking, “you may as well do it now; it will spare us both time. There is no torture you can subject me to worse than what I have already endured.”

Aziraphale looked horrified. “We’re not going to kill you. Or torture you. Goodness me, no! I –  _ we  _ – want to help you. Do you have a name?”

The angel obviously didn’t believe him. “Balthamos. Do  _ you  _ have a name?”

Aziraphale ignored the blatantly argumentative tone. “Aziraphale. And this is my husband Crowley.”

“Anthony J.,” added Crowley.

A tremor passed over the angel’s face before it returned to its previous tightness. “You are married? That is a human custom.”

“Yes, well you see, we’ve been on Earth a long,  _ long  _ time,” Aziraphale said.

“And we’ve got used to humanity,” Crowley continued.

“Quite fond of it, really. They do come up with such marvelous things. So we indulge in them from time to time.”

“Every day, angel.”

Aziraphale smiled warmly at him before turning back to their visitor. “Drink up, dear boy.”

Looking as though he suspected them of trying to poison him, Balthamos picked up the mug of cocoa and took a tentative sip. “It’s… very warm,” he said.

Aziraphale frowned. “It’s  _ supposed  _ to be – ”

“Anyway,” Crowley cut in smoothly. “Where you from? ‘Cause around here we don’t really go in for the see-through thing.”

“Oh.” The angel looked down at (and through) himself, frowning. “I do not have the strength to make myself appear more visible to you; nor could I even if I did, not without practice. It has always been an advantage to pass unseen, as weak as we – ” His voice wobbled. “As weak as I am. And in answer to your question, I am not from your world.”

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged a look.

“What world  _ are  _ you from? How did you get here?” Aziraphale asked.

Balthamos shook his head. “I don’t know. Neither do I know how I survived to your world. The last thing I remember…” He stopped. Clearly it wasn’t a pleasant memory.

“No need to go into it,” Aziraphale hastened to say. “But perhaps if you remember anything that might be useful, let me know? There’s really some very interesting books on alternate dimensions… I could do some research and see if there’s a way to get you back home!”

Balthamos looked at them bleakly. “I have no home. Baruch was my home.”

Aziraphale made a pained noise, obviously moved. For a moment, Crowley was deeply envious of this angel’s ability to spout off poetic shit at a moment’s notice. Aziraphale  _ loved  _ poetic shit. Crowley was terrible at it. Then he remembered that his angel had survived his brush with death and was here next to him now and every day, loving him as he once thought he’d never be loved, and this other angel was… He shivered, before he had a thought.

“Wait, so you died? You’re 100% supposed to be dead?”

“Crowley!” admonished his husband.

Balthamos nodded, looking weary.

“Alright, but. If there was enough of  _ you  _ left for Aziraphale to bring back…”

The angel’s eyes widened.

“Isn’t it possible that – ”

He was already halfway out the door.

“Not so fast!” Aziraphale snapped his fingers. Balthamos froze with wings half-extended, glaring daggers at him.

“You are in  _ no  _ state to travel,” Aziraphale said firmly. “You’re half-dead still, and I don’t know where you’re from but if you died there it can’t be terribly safe. You need to rest, regain your strength. What would your – your Baruch say if you went haring off like this, terribly underprepared, and got yourself really properly killed before you could get to him? I doubt he would be very pleased!”

“Do not presume to know his mind,” Balthamos snarled, and for the first time since they had met him, he was entirely unafraid. “You know  _ nothing  _ of him, he was – he was – ” Tears welled up in his eyes. It looked like Aziraphale’s miracle was the only thing keeping him upright.

“He was the best thing that ever happened to you, right?” said Crowley. “Made the world brighter just by existing. Made all the darkness bearable.” He glanced at Aziraphale.

“And no matter what,” Aziraphale continued, “as long as you had him, you always had a safe place, and friendship, and – and love. Unswerving, unconditional love…”

“That nobody had ever shown you before,” Crowley said quietly.

There were tears streaming down the angel’s face. Aziraphale let the hold on him fail and he sank to his knees, sobbing, wings wrapping around himself.

“So you see,” Aziraphale said gently, coming closer and kneeling down next to the shattered angel. “We do understand.”

“If it was you,” choked Balthamos, “and him, what would you do in my place?”

“Well, I – I  _ hope  _ I would be practical and realize I could be of no help to Crowley in such a state…”

“Liar,” whispered Balthamos in a crumbling voice. “Please, if you truly wish to help, let me go.”

Silence fell in the bookshop. Aziraphale sighed.

“How about a compromise? You don’t remember how you got to this world, so first we have to figure out how to get you back. I have some things here in my collection that could be of assistance, and perhaps I could call our friend Anathema – she’s a very skilled witch – for help as well. And even if you can find him, then you’ll still need my help to heal him, unless you were planning on draining yourself  _ completely…” _

From the look on Balthamos’s face, Crowley could tell he had been planning on doing precisely that. Once more he felt a reluctant tug of kinship with the angel. It was exactly what he would have done.

“So,” Aziraphale concluded, “in exchange for that help, you agree to stay here and rest for now, and, well, er, go at a pace that won’t kill you. What do you say?”

Balthamos stared at him. “You would continue helping me? But you, you’re of the host, and I rebelled…”

Aziraphale laughed a little. “My dear fellow, I  _ married  _ a fallen angel.”

“Yeah,” Crowley interjected. “In  _ front  _ of people!”

“So I don’t think it will be any hardship to help one. Or two, if we do manage to find your…”

“Baruch,” whispered the other angel, infusing the name with a terrible jagged hope.

Aziraphale beamed. “What a lovely name. If there’s any chance of finding him and getting him back, we’ll do it. Righty-ho!” (Crowley groaned.)

Balthamos looked between them for a moment, desperately, then his faintly shining eyes filled with opalescent tears. This time, when he doubled over sobbing, Aziraphale gently put his arms around him and patted his back.

Despite Aziraphale’s protests, Balthamos insisted on an immediate short flight to try and find what he called a “window” in the sky that would allow them to cross over into another world. From there he seemed confident that he could navigate to where they needed to go, despite Aziraphale getting the distinct impression that there might be even more world-hopping involved.

“Oh, do be careful dear,” he fretted as Crowley exited the bookshop and unfurled his gorgeous black wings. “Be on the lookout for balloons and aeroplanes and things, and if you find it don’t go through without me – ”

“I’ll be fine, angel,” said Crowley with obvious amusement. “Won’t get clipped by any planes. If you’re that worried, you could come with.”

Aziraphale disliked flying. It was so hard to keep one’s coat clean in the sky, and it made his head turn around dizzily.

“Oh, er, I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’ll be of more use staying here. Perhaps I’ll telephone Miss Device.”

Crowley grinned and kissed Aziraphale warmly before springing into the air.

But Aziraphale didn’t get a chance to telephone Anathema. Barely a quarter-hour after they had left, there were two distinct thumps from outside his door, and a moment later Crowley came in supporting a barely-visible Balthamos, who slumped into a heap on the sofa as Crowley heaved him off his shoulder.

“You were right, angel,” said Crowley, taking off his sunglasses and frowning at the angel on their couch. “He’s in no condition to be doing anything. Nearly went into the Channel, and it was all I could do to keep anyone from noticing.”

Aziraphale clicked his tongue. “Poor fellow,” he said. “Well, I’ll look after him. Will you go back out?”

Crowley snorted. “Ha! I’ve already wasted more time than… I… Oh,  _ fine,  _ you don’t have to give me those eyes.”

Aziraphale closed seven of them and batted the remaining two at Crowley. “Thank you, my dear.”

Over the next few weeks, things somehow settled into a surprisingly comfortable routine. Aziraphale discovered that with the use of a small miracle, he could make their visitor less distractingly see-through, and take on the appearance of a normal-ish human so as to blend in. (Aziraphale’s idea of “normal” was several centuries out of date, and Crowley sympathized with Balthamos’s unimpressed look at the faded brown suit Aziraphale had produced for him.) He had turned this way and that examining himself, his wings flapping a bit to balance him, even if they were now safely tucked away from prying mortal eyes.

It turned out that his eyes, when visible, were nearly the same color as Aziraphale’s, only many, many shades darker. They glimmered a deep hazel that put Crowley in mind of an ancient forest, one so thick that going into it always felt like nightfall. He got the impression that this angel was quite old, certainly older than Aziraphale and probably older than Crowley, who had been around just a little longer, although since time hadn’t been invented at that point it was difficult to really say. (Crowley wondered if there was a version of himself in this other world, and if not, if the stars looked any different for it.)

But despite that there was an air of vulnerability about him. Crowley wasn’t sure if it was something to do with his personality or if it was the cloud of grief that clung to him everywhere he went. Crowley didn’t know it, but it reminded Aziraphale, just a little bit, of Crowley himself.

Crowley went up almost every day looking for the window while Aziraphale studied his books and maps. When he returned he gave a report of his progress to the two of them, and Aziraphale marked off the map he had posted up and made notations on. It clearly rankled Balthamos to stay behind, but his almost-death had taken a nasty toll on him; he was so weak he could hardly carry a stack of books from one side of the shop to the other, let alone fly.

The stack of books wasn’t a hypothetical example; Aziraphale, trying to think of something for him to fill his time with, had enlisted him as a shopkeeper’s assistant. He had discovered that the other angel’s air of casually rude disapproval did wonders to chase off potential customers, so now whenever he opened the shop he kept Balthamos at the counter to look down his nose at anyone who came in.

At first he had just sat there all day gazing into the distance with an expression that wouldn’t have been out of place on someone cast adrift at sea. But someone (Crowley) had decided to engage in a little temptation and left a James Bond novel within easy reach. He’d thought it was a lost cause at first, but then he spotted the angel’s eyes flicking to it, and at last a hand crept over the counter and seized it. Before long the angel had worked his way through all the spy fiction in the shop and had moved onto cozy mysteries (on Aziraphale’s recommendation.)

He tried tea and found that he preferred cocoa after all. (Tea was too washed-out. Cocoa was “too sweet, but tolerable.”) He and Aziraphale could have started a late-night bookclub; Balthamos didn’t seem to sleep either. Crowley was torn on whether or not this was because it was optional, like it was for Aziraphale, or whether he was just avoiding it. After all, Crowley had done the same thing himself for years after the Fall.

He had plenty to occupy the time: reading Aziraphale’s collection and sitting at the desk with one of Aziraphale’s old quill pens, scribbling away in a notebook in a language that not even Aziraphale could read. When asked, he claimed that he used to be a “recording angel” and that he was writing down the story of what had happened in his worlds. (For Crowley’s money, it was just sappy love poetry.) Regardless, Aziraphale felt guilty leaving him awake and all alone through the whole night, so he tried to stay up and keep him company for a few hours most nights before joining Crowley in bed.

Balthamos seemed to have realized by this point that Aziraphale wasn’t going to suddenly decide to kill him, and though his acerbic sharpness remained, he softened just enough to teach Aziraphale the angelic runes he was using, which delighted Aziraphale to no end, and then to tell him a little about the worlds he had seen. Almost always through the lens of "Baruch loved this or that place," but at least it was a start.

In fact Aziraphale started genuinely enjoying their little chats, and even Crowley had to admit that when he joined in it… wasn’t awful. That was as far as he’d go. Aziraphale only chuckled when he voiced this, though when he’d resumed running his fingers absently through Crowley’s hair, it was with an even softer touch than usual.

One day, Crowley returned and beckoned Aziraphale into the back room. Balthamos was busy with a customer who had their eye on a rare edition of Milton’s  _ Paradise Lost. _

“Did you think this said  _ ten  _ thousand pounds?” he was saying.

“He’s settling in well,” Crowley muttered as he and Aziraphale retreated into the other room.

“What is it, dear?”

Crowley glanced back again before speaking in a low voice. “I’ve found it.”

“Oh, that’s  _ splendid!  _ We must – ”

“Hold up, angel. Look.” He shifted uncomfortably from foot-to-foot. “I’ve been where he is, y’know? I know you felt what he did, but…”  _ I lived it,  _ he didn’t say.

“Oh, Crowley…” Aziraphale took his face in his hands, stroking his cheeks. Tenderly, he kissed Crowley’s forehead before resting his own against it. “I’m so sorry.”

Crowley took a deep breath in, reaching up to wrap his fingers around Aziraphale’s wrist briefly before pulling back and offering him a weak smile. “Just saying, if this doesn’t work, if his angel is really gone forever, it’s not gonna be pretty.”

“But we have to try. Just think if we hadn’t found each other in that pub, before the Apocalypse…”

Crowley sighed. “Suppose so.”

Balthamos looked stricken when they told him, hopeful and fearful at once, and was clearly dissolving into a wreck as they prepared to leave. Crowley still had his doubts as to whether or not he should even be airborne, but there was nothing to be done about it at this point. Crowley packed up a few necessary things, Aziraphale packed up rather a lot of unnecessary things, miracled them into a convenient void to be plucked out when called for, and they were off.

They both had to slow down to allow Balthamos to keep up. This meant they also had to endure what Crowley began to mentally refer to as the “Baruch Praise Hour.” Nervous energy bubbled out of their angel companion, and his usual prickly quietness morphed into a seemingly endless monologue about how kind Baruch was, how gentle he was, how wise he was…

Aziraphale, frustratingly, seemed to take this as encouragement to go on and on himself about how wonderful Crowley was. Listening to his angel try to one-up Balthamos was mortifying. Oh, Baruch saved an elderly man from drowning? Well, Crowley saved a whole ark-load of children! And so forth. His entire face was on fire by the time they reached the window in the sky.

Balthamos darted through and led them on. At first it was disappointing, thought Crowley, that a whole other world was so  _ similar  _ to the one they had left. The wide brushstrokes of the landscape were generally the same, the sky was the same, it even smelled the same. Then night fell, and the stars came out, and he quickly stifled the audible gasp he’d let out. It turned out this world hadn’t had a Crowley after all.

Aziraphale had heard it anyway. “I like your stars better, my dear,” he told Crowley, voice dripping with so much love and pride that Crowley furiously blushed for a full half-hour afterward. Balthamos stiffened again, and Crowley thought he heard what might have been a tiny, desperate sob. He  _ definitely  _ wasn’t imagining the resentment in the angel’s eyes whenever he looked at them flying hand-in-hand for several hours after that. And he couldn’t blame him, either.

They flew on, through several more windows closer to the ground, the chill air at the altitude they always returned to cutting right into Crowley’s bones and making every fiber of his snakey self nearly weep with cold. At last, a great black fortress loomed on the horizon. It jutted up into the sky like a hand reaching up from the earth.

“What is that place?” Aziraphale asked nervously.

Balthamos said nothing, and they swept toward the fortress in silence. When they landed, they discovered that it was completely abandoned. The only sound was the wind, shrieking through the peaks of the mountains. Crowley shivered, and Aziraphale stepped closer and sheltered him with a wing. Debris crunched underfoot.

Balthamos looked around with an aching expression. “He should be here, but I can’t feel him…”

Aziraphale tilted his head. “Let me try, dear boy. If I’m right, neither you nor Crowley would be able to sense this.” After a moment of concentration, he smiled widely. “Ah! There it is. This way.”

He took Crowley’s arm and led them towards the center of the fortress, where a high tower stood.

The interior was in shambles, broken wood and bent pieces of metal everywhere. Aziraphale stopped, looking around. Whatever he was seeing was invisible to Crowley, though not, he thought,  _ entirely  _ invisible to Balthamos. The angel had drawn his breath in sharply as they entered, and he had a hand clenched over his chest as if he were in physical pain.

Aziraphale turned to him. “When you, and my dear Crowley, were cut off from Heaven, you lost your ability to sense love. But I still can, and let me tell you, dear fellow, this room is positively brimming with it.”

“Is he...?” Balthamos sounded dazed.

“He’s nearly gone,” Aziraphale said gently. “But he’s holding on; for your sake, I’m quite sure. He must be very strong to have kept himself from drifting apart entirely this long.”

“Yes…” Balthamos murmured with a painful, jerky half-smile. He was shaking like a leaf.

Crowley held out his hand, and Aziraphale took it. “You sure you can do this, angel?” he muttered.

Aziraphale squeezed his hand. “The least I can do is try.”

“Anything I can do?”

“No; I think it’s best if you stay out of this. I’m not sure exactly how these angels would react to your, er…”

“Demonic-ness?” Crowley suggested. “Unholiness? Hellishness?”

“Just hold my hand, please,” Aziraphale said, sounding tart now rather than worried, which had been the point. “It’ll all be tickety-boo, I’m sure…”

This would have reassured Crowley more if he hadn’t sounded like he was trying to convince himself too. Then he straightened his sleeves, stretched out his free hand, and snapped his fingers.

At first nothing happened. Aziraphale frowned, his fingers twitching, and Crowley gripped his hand tighter. Then he heard something, so faint it seemed to be echoing to them from one of the distant mountains. He listened closely but couldn’t make it out.

It got louder and clearer as Aziraphale concentrated, and the air in front of them began to glow.

“Baruch!” cried Balthamos, flinging himself forward. He stopped in front of the quickly spreading golden light, sparks fluttering around his face and wings. Light shone on his eyes, turning them to bright gold, almost a match for Crowley’s. At last the voice became clear; it was crying out, weakly, hopelessly, but audibly.

“Balthamos!” it was calling. “Balthamos… I’m sorry…”

Balthamos choked. He reached up to touch the golden light, but his hand passed right through.

“It’s all right,” he said softly. Neither of them had ever heard him use that tone before. He reached up again, stopping just short of the golden light and letting it bathe his hand. “Baruch, my dear…”

The light pulsed stronger. “Balthamos?” the voice said again, but this time it sounded different; present, curious, hopeful.

“Yes, I’m here.” His voice was unsteady. “And I shall never leave you again, I swear it.”

Next to Crowley, Aziraphale was clenching his teeth with strain. “Stand back, dear!” he warned, and Crowley closed his eyes and ducked behind Aziraphale just in time as a brilliant bolt of white light shot through the room. Aziraphale must have had to put some extra punch of divine energy into that one. The tips of his ears felt a little singed, and he only dared to open his eyes when he felt Aziraphale relax.

In the space where the golden light had been, another angel stood, directly in front of Balthamos. His warm eyes were filling up with tears, and there was a wavering smile on his face as he looked at Balthamos.

Balthamos let out a strangled wail and shot into the other angel’s arms, throwing his own around him and then wrapping his wings around for good measure. Words seemed beyond him; he sobbed helplessly into the angel’s neck and clutched him close.

The angel had massive white wings, somehow even fluffier than Aziraphale’s, and they enclosed them both. They were blocked off from Crowley’s view, but he could still hear them.

“Balthamos,” Baruch whispered. “I am sorry.”

“No, no, I – I failed you, I was a coward, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry – ” He disintegrated into heaving sobs.

“Shhh…” The wings nestled gently around him. “You could never fail me, and there is nothing to be ashamed of. I know you did all you could, and more.”

Balthamos seemed as if he was about to argue the point, but jerked back suddenly like he’d been burned. “You’re still hurt.”

A closer look revealed that he was still in a great deal of pain. Looking past the fluffy plumage, his wings were torn in multiple places, and he was holding himself stiffly.

“I’ll have that fixed up in a jiffy,” said Aziraphale, and snapped his fingers. The wings mended themselves in a heartbeat, and Baruch straightened with a little sigh. He inclined his head towards Aziraphale, but before he could say anything Aziraphale had stumbled back into Crowley’s waiting arms.

“Oh dear,” he said. “I think I may have overdone it a bit…”

“You don’t say?” Crowley helped Aziraphale over to lean against the wall, hovering anxiously.

“Will he be all right?” Baruch asked.

Aziraphale nodded. “Just tired, that’s all! I only need a nice cup of cocoa and some rest, really.”

Occupied as he was with worrying about Aziraphale, Crowley was only dimly aware that the other two angels were embracing again fiercely, talking to each other in low voices. He heard “Will” and “assassin” and “never see you again” and immediately afterwards there was a very telling silence, during which Crowley didn’t have to think very hard to know what was happening behind him.

But he  _ was  _ still a demon, and besides he needed to get Aziraphale someplace more comfortable to rest, so he cheerfully turned around and interrupted.

“I thought I would never see you again,” Baruch murmured, enfolding Balthamos in his wings again and pressing his lips to his forehead and cheek and then to the corner of his mouth, softly, reassuring. He looked very different at the moment, it was true; weary and ill, and much more visible in daylight than usual, which was odd. But he was still himself, and they were together again at last.

After a moment Balthamos broke away and rested his head against his shoulder, still trembling, his mind still in turmoil. There were so many other things Baruch needed to say to him: how proud he was of him, how desperately he had missed him, in those long formless weeks when all he knew was that there was something yet that he had left to do, how –

“Oi!” said the red-haired demon. “Can we get out of here now? Aziraphale went too hard on the miracles and he needs rest.”

Baruch could only presume  _ Aziraphale  _ was the nearby angel who, for some inexplicable reason, was helping them.

“Went too hard?” they both said, frowning. Crowley (the name sprung to Baruch’s mind from the memories still filtering in from Balthamos, most of which made him want to sink down and weep, and hold him very tightly and never let go.) Crowley rolled his eyes, somehow managing to make this obvious despite the glasses.

“He overdid it. Too much flying and huge miracles, not enough rest. Got his angel-y-ness all burnt out.” His fingers curled a little into Aziraphale’s waistcoat.

“Don’t exaggerate,” Aziraphale scolded, but Crowley shushed him.

“Well, really!” Despite pasting on an aggrieved expression, it was clear that this angel quite liked being fussed over by his… Baruch’s eyes widened slightly. An angel and a demon, together? A strange pair, to be sure, but watching them bicker affectionately felt comfortable and almost familiar.

And they had helped his dear Balthamos, even if it seemed better not to examine those memories too deeply just yet. Though they had been returned to each other, the wounds that had ripped open were still aching and raw. Even his beloved’s ever-sharp tongue was dulled by grief. Gently, Baruch wrapped his wing back around him, sheltering him from the world that had hurt him so grievously.

“Right, that’s settled,” Crowley said, after no such thing had been settled. “We’re leaving.”

“Then leave,” Balthamos said. Well, perhaps not  _ entirely  _ dulled.

“We would be glad to escort you back to your home,” Baruch offered.

Aziraphale waved a hand. “Thank you very much, dear fellow, but neither of you are in any condition to exert yourselves any further.”

“Angels who live in glass houses,” Crowley muttered.

“We’ll be quite alright by ourselves,” Aziraphale went on.

“Please,” Baruch said. “Allow me to do this small thing for you, in repayment for saving my heart’s other half.”

Crowley  _ might  _ have groaned faintly at this, and muttered, “Hell’s sake, there’s  _ two  _ of them.”

Aziraphale, looking increasingly exhausted by the second, nodded absently. “Oh, very well then, thank you… Crowley, I do believe I would very much like to go home now.”

“Right, angel, have you there in no time,” replied the demon anxiously, taking his arm and supporting him out of the tower.

Reluctantly, Baruch unfolded his wings and arms and separated from Balthamos, but when he grasped his hand tightly he held on and didn’t let go. Together they followed Crowley and Aziraphale out back into the grounds of the ruined fortress. He surveyed the chaos around him uneasily.

“It seems the battle is over,” he said quietly to Balthamos. “One way or another. I do not know where we should go now.”

“Away,” he replied. “If it is won, then we are safe. If not…”

“After we escort them home, I could scout the area.” True, he felt rather weak, but the angel had healed all of his wounds. “I could find out if – ”

“No!” Balthamos clutched at his hand. Through their bond, Baruch felt a lurching tide of helplessness, grief,  _ terror.  _ "No – please. Stay with me.”

Baruch remembered the terrible cold loneliness of his own death, calling out in vain, desperate to see him one last time though he was worlds away, and then Balthamos… Oh, Balthamos.

“I will,” he said softly. “I will stay with you now until the end, whenever it comes.”

Ahead of them, Crowley was murmuring something to Aziraphale, running a hand softly along his wings. “Sure, angel, I’ll keep an eye out for you.”

“Thank you, dear,” Aziraphale said. “I’m so terrible in the air, you know, and so dreadfully tired…”

“It’s your own fault,” Crowley reminded him, but without any bite, and leaned in to kiss his cheek. He reddened when he spotted Baruch watching them. “Well? Are we gonna get on with it?” he demanded.

Get on with it they did. It was a slower flight back through the windows. All of them were exhausted; even Crowley looked relieved when they finally called a halt for the night and landed in a small clearing, located in a forest well away from the eerie mountains.

It was warmer here, and Crowley let out a pleased sort of hissing noise as they alighted. With a snap of his fingers, there was a little campfire blazing in front of them, and he had produced a plate of something from thin air and was pushing it on Aziraphale.

Aziraphale took a few nibbles, a swig of something Crowley had in a flask (it was tea, but he had a reputation to maintain), and then propped himself on his demon’s shoulder and started snoring in the middle of a protest about how virtue never slept.

Crowley clicked his fingers again and there was a thick blanket wrapped around Aziraphale, tucking its own ends around his shoulders and turning him into a tartan cocoon with a head of fluffy curls poking out onto Crowley’s shoulder, standing out stark against his black jacket. It seemed that Crowley had forgotten the presence of anyone else; he wrapped an arm around the tartan bundle and nestled it close to his side, smiling rather soppily over at it. He finally took off the glasses he’d been wearing, though it had been dark for hours, and Baruch caught a glimpse of slitted yellow eyes like a snake’s, embers from the fire reflecting off them in burning red.

Crowley caught him looking and gave a rather bitter grin. “So I guess you guys don’t become demons when you Fall.”

“No.” He found this fascinating, and would have asked more questions, but Crowley plainly didn’t want to discuss the matter; he conspicuously stretched and yawned.

“I’m gonna turn in. Yell if you need anything.” Sinking to the ground, with one final snap of his fingers he had encased himself and Aziraphale in a sort of wide sleeping bag, tucked the angel in close to his side and a sleek black blanket over most of his head, and closed his eyes.

Idly stroking Balthamos’s shoulders, Baruch let the silence descend peacefully over them for some time, closing his eyes and breathing deeply, relishing the simple feeling of being present in the world once more and near Balthamos. When he spoke, it was so quietly as to hardly be heard.

“A long time ago, you comforted a dying human who had never once known peace or love, and could never have believed himself worthy of either, by allowing him into your mind and revealing a depth of both that he could never have imagined being gifted.”

“You were my refuge, Balthamos, and I shall be yours; and though I’ve told you, as many times and as well as I can through all these years, all I wished for when I was dying was to say it to you one last time, so I will say it now: I love you, now and then and always.”

Balthamos went quite still next to him. He would have spoken, yet the words caught within him, tender and broken; but it didn’t matter, because Baruch could feel them as deeply as if he’d said them clear and strong.

He wrapped both arms around Balthamos and sank into his mind, and together they could face the pain and navigate it, shoring each other up, shielding each other with all the thoughts of love and protection they had built over the course of four thousand years.

The next day dawned brisk and foggy. Crowley woke up and discovered that his primary source of warmth had risen early and was sitting on a neat tartan blanket spread over a mossy log, toasting something over the fire and looking much more himself.

“Morning angel,” he said, sauntering over to the fire and plopping down next to Aziraphale on the uncovered part of the log.

“Good morning, dear. Did you sleep well?”

Crowley yawned. “Well enough. Be glad to get back to an actual bed.”

“Oh,  _ quite,”  _ Aziraphale said fervently.

Crowley glanced around. “Don’t see the others.”

“Well, that’s hardly unusual.”

“I mean they’re not here,” Crowley clarified, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, yes, they left a while ago.” Aziraphale smiled. “They wanted to watch the sun rise together, it was really rather sweet.”

“Ugh,” Crowley said. “If it’s going to be this cloying all day, I’m going back to sleep.”

“Better not.” Aziraphale had tilted his head. “I believe they’re coming back.”

Sure enough, there was the sound of two sets of wings beating in time with each other, and Balthamos and Baruch touched down. Crowley might not have been able to sense love like Aziraphale could, but even he felt the sappiness in the area ratchet up a couple thousand degrees. They were practically  _ glowing.  _ Well, alright, they were almost always glowing at least a little, but…  _ anyway. _

He miracled himself a cup of coffee and lifted it to his lips so no one would expect him to make conversation. But he needn’t have worried about it; before the other two angels reached them, they heard another set of wings, loud in the foggy silence.

Balthamos and Baruch jerked back in fear, each reaching blindly for the other. Seeing their panic, Aziraphale stood up quickly, shifting a little closer to Crowley and brandishing the butter knife he’d been using on his toast.

“Who goes there?” he called in his best imperious Guardian of Eden voice.

A moment later, another angel landed in the clearing. He was brighter and seemed more powerful than Balthamos or Baruch, and carried a keen-looking sword. His eyes immediately fixed on Aziraphale with a look that Crowley didn’t like at all, particularly in conjunction with the aforementioned sword.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “Do you serve Metatron?”

Aziraphale blinked, flushing. “Oh, er, well I’m afraid last time we spoke it went rather badly – ”

The sword rang as it was drawn. Taken aback, Aziraphale and Crowley both raised their hands instinctively –

“Stop!” cried Baruch. “This angel is a friend, he’s on our side. He and his companion have been helping us.”

The angel – since there were an awful lot of angels in the clearing and this one didn’t seem likely to introduce himself in a friendly way any time soon, Crowley decided to call him Steve – didn’t put down his sword, but at least he stopped glaring quite so furiously at Aziraphale.

“Balthamos? Baruch? We thought you were dead.”

“...We were.” Baruch gestured at Aziraphale. “It is only because of him that we stand before you now.”

“Hey,” Crowley objected, but no one paid him any heed. Except Aziraphale, who patted his arm and whispered “You did marvelously, dear” which made Crowley feel quite vindicated.

The angel Steve eyed Aziraphale with suspicion, but at least he  _ finally  _ put away the bloody sword.

“Perhaps,” Baruch continued, “you can tell us what has been happening in our absence?”

A long, convoluted explanation followed. Apparently someone named Asriel had kicked the bucket but won the war, or something, and now the world was saved except there were gaping holes in reality leaking into the void and a bunch of enemy forces on the loose, which didn’t sound particularly safe to Crowley, and the angels were trying to clean it all up.

“But Metatron is dead, at long last,” Steve finished, “and the Clouded Mountain lies empty.”

Crowley snorted –  _ Clouded Mountain? _ What, was Heaven a Mario Kart course in this world? He was immediately distracted, though, by an uptick of very un-angelic emotions coming off both Balthamos and Baruch at the first part of this news, fading as the rest of it sank in. It felt like pure, concentrated loathing on Balthamos’s part, but on Baruch’s end there were other, even messier emotions mixed in. A lot of old pain there.

He was going to go ahead and guess the Metatron in this world was a lot different than the one in his. It was difficult to imagine that a floating head who spent most of his time answering divine phone calls and practicing vocal projection techniques could have been responsible for quite so much angst.

“It is over, then,” Balthamos said, with wonder. A rare smile blossomed on his face when he looked at Baruch.

Steve shook his head. “It is just beginning.”

Way to be an upper, Steve, Crowley thought.

Luckily Balthamos and Baruch seemed momentarily too wrapped up in each other and their own relief to notice, and Crowley decided that he would send this angel packing before they had a chance. Not because he liked them, or wanted them to have some freedom with each other before being called back to their war; he was still a demon, after all, he had to work  _ some  _ mischief or he would stagnate.

“Nice talking to you, Steve,” he said, wandering over and making sure to let a bit of his true form bleed through. The angel recoiled, looking askance at his fangs and mouthing  _ Steve? _

Aziraphale picked up immediately on what he was trying to do. “Yes, it was quite lovely meeting you!” he enthused, stepping closer, which made the angel skitter away.

Aziraphale put the finishing touch on the matter by absently toying with the butter knife in his hands. A flicker of fire seemed to appear on it, although it lasted only for a moment before the vision faded into just a glint of sunlight through the clouds.

_ “Quite  _ lovely,” he repeated, letting the smile freeze on his face.

Oh, Crowley would love him forever.

Steve didn’t even glance at Balthamos and Baruch before jumping into the air. “Farewell!” he said hurriedly, and flew off like the devil was behind him.

Not the devil, though: just a demon and an angel who was a little bit of a bastard.

The last window was only a short distance away, and they flew all the way back to the bookshop without incident and landed by the front doors, a quick miracle from Crowley diverting attention from passersby. It was a relief to see the old familiar shop once more, and for Crowley, to see his beloved Bentley parked safely in her usual space. After such a long stretch of flying he was going to  _ relish  _ driving again.

Aziraphale smiled. “Thank you both for the escort.”

“Thank  _ you,”  _ they said together.

“We owe you more than can ever be repaid,” Baruch added softly.

Aziraphale actually started to sniffle. “Oh, it was – it was my pleasure, truly, and I do wish you  _ all  _ the best…”

“Oh, now you’ve done it,” said Crowley. “He’s going to be hugging you in just a minute. Look, why don’t you come in for some tea? ‘S a long flight back.”

They exchanged a look. “Very well,” said Balthamos, and actually cracked another smile. Together they went into the bookshop, and Crowley could hear him telling Baruch more about his stint as a shopkeeper’s assistant.

“You’re going to try to get them to stay the night, aren’t you,” he said to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale looked a trifle guilty. “Well,” he said. “It  _ is  _ a long flight back. And I think they deserve a bit of a vacation, don’t you?”

“I’m a demon, Aziraphale. Of  _ course  _ I’m going to encourage sloth.”

“Oh hush, you darling old serpent. I know you like them.”

Crowley opened his mouth to disagree, then closed it. “You don’t have to look so  _ smug,  _ angel.”

Aziraphale gave him a coy look.

“Alright, yes, I like it when you’re smug.” Crowley didn’t even try to mask the affection suffusing his voice, embarrassingly soft and gooey as it was, and Aziraphale beamed like his own personal sun.

Every so often, in a bookshop in Soho whose doors always stand open to certain otherworldly visitors, three angels and a demon can be found: recounting stories from all over the worlds, commiserating over how dreadful the 14th century was, and, above all, after so many trials, warming themselves in the safety and comfort they had each found at long last.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the song In the Wind by Lord Huron, which is a 10/10 Balthamos/Baruch song, would cry again.
> 
> The botanical gardens at the beginning are based on the Kew Botanical Gardens, which I had never heard of before googling around for this fic but deeply want to visit now!
> 
> I apologize for any errors, most of this fic was edited entirely too late at night. It was a huge challenge to write a crossover of two fandoms/four characters with such distinct styles and voices, but I really enjoyed it and I hope it all came through well! (Tbh I'd love to write more of them at some point.)
> 
> Thank you for reading! <3


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